And now you return, thrice noble Odysseus:
How, pray tell, do your people greet you?
They greet with song and dance, with festivity and song.
They greet with legends made and newer poems sung.
God I thought you were trying to get to me so I got off the phone.
God come on and talk to me if you’ve got something to say.
God hurry up—you’ve got eternity but I’ve only got a few million lousy minutes.
God I’ve got other people to talk to.
The mirror of my soul
Reflects a thousand spirits.
I stand in the void,
Grasping to find
California reveries of dreams assail me
As waves of sleep drift from Lethe’s misty shore
Memories to keep past such fateful banks
And a remembrance of things past, things
I keep my little God in a box of space.
He talks to me in my sleep,
and He whispers the answers
to a thousand unasked questions.
You attack my poetry—
It lacks meter,
You ask me how
I write a poem;
How I change
Leaves to snowflakes